


Colossal Signs

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they are a lot of things and they’re not. they’re the easy route instead of a possibility [probability] of hurt. they are an everything that shouldn’t exist. but does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colossal Signs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robpatFF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robpatFF/gifts), [mrsyt31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsyt31/gifts).



> because of [this poem](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbfxb1RDcj1r6ptf3o1_500.png) that Mathie and Morgan discussed a forever ago on twitter that I’ve had sat in my bookmarks as WRITE SOMETHING for far too long. And procrastination always leads here. So, for them and for Erin, because everything always is. Title from Little Dragon’s Twice which i listened to on repeat for far too long writing this.

**Colossal Signs**

It would be easier if he didn’t love him. Was _in_ love with him.

It would be easier if it was hard. If it was harder to stop instead of how simple it was to continue. To breathe.

It would be easier if they both stopped and were rational, spoke instead of staying quiet.

But they’re not like that. Neither of them. Both savor silence over words that could sting and slice and cause hurts that could never be healed.

It could be easier. But Niall’s never been one to rock the boat, not then, not now.

Maybe, not ever.

\- - -

There were lips on his shoulder, warmth against the cold that their sheet slipping down during the night had left his naked skin to feel. He didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

Soft and sure Zayns kisses lingered. His “good morning” and “I missed you” and “I don’t know why I’m here anymore.”

Niall never moved when Zayn did this. Didn’t have to. This was Zayn’s thing. Zayn’s way of saying all that they didn’t need to after four years together. Four years to short. Four years too many.

Zayn’s lips would skim over the curve that was Niall’s collarbone, the arch of his neck from where his head was turned to the side. Always facing the window, always away from Zayn. The way he slept should have been obvious. The way their backs were always aligned. The way they each curled away from each other - subconscious need for space and singularity in a bed where they once fell on top of each other. Fell in and around and under.

But that was awhile ago.

He’d always sigh when he reached the apple of Niall’s cheek. This puff of air and barely there sound filled with more emotion than the handful of words they’d exchange during the day would tell. Then there’d be this intake, this pause, and Niall would hold his own just waiting. Waiting for the day that Zayn would kiss him one last time. But then Zayn would breathe out and it would sound as sad and as hollow as the place in Niall’s chest where his heart beat less and less in time with Zayns and that was. That was in many ways much worse.

Niall would only open his eyes when he felt Zayn leave the bed. Would only roll over and curl up even further into himself when he heard the shower start. He’d watch - Zayn never closed the door - as the tiny bathroom filled with steam. Zayn would lean into their shower head, the water pounding over his bent head as he pressed his palms flat against the tiled wall. The water would sluice in rivers joining to become lakes and oceans as they cascaded down the inky black of his hair, the smooth caramel of his skin and Niall’s eyes would follow them down until the steam distorted his view.

Zayn would stay in there for hours.

Niall would either fall back to sleep if it were a weekend, or get up and dress and leave before Zayn appeared once more.

He couldn’t handle the mornings. The way they avoided each others stare. Moving like planetary bodies slightly out of sync as they circled the kitchen - the island in the middle being more than a place to cut their fruit and vegetables. They moved about it like they were two opposing currents always shifting in the other direction. Their friends said they were an “old married couple - the way you two do things before the other, always know what he wants don’t you?”

They never realised it was just easier that way. Less to talk about if you already knew what the other one was thinking. Less to touch if you already put what they wanted within reach.

It was all smoke and mirrors to those that weren’t them.

To those that would never know.

\- - -

It wasn’t like that in the beginning. In the beginning, it was bright and new and comfortable where a new relationship shouldn’t have been.

(That should have been a clue.)

Zayn would come home late and curl around Niall already deep in slumber on the bed they’d spent half a day dragging up three floors and nearly _killed_ themselves wedging in through the door. Zayn would stink of cigarettes and sweat and old cologne from the bar but he’d wrap around Niall all the same. Happy to hold him. Happy to have someone to hold.

He’d sleep in his jeans, shirt having been stripped off somewhere between the front door and their room, shoes littered along the hallway along with his socks. Zayn’s journey from taking care of others and being cared for all left for Niall to clear up in the morning. Their legs would twine and Niall would hum as denim scratched over his bare legs. Bite his lip as Zayn’s belt buckle pinched the skin above the waistband of Niall’s briefs.

Niall would fall asleep to the rhythmic sounds of Zayn’s breathing and Zayn’s heart and the way his chest shifted against Niall’s back. He’d sleep feeling wanted, safe. Secure.

Their obnoxious alarm would wake them both the next morning. Niall blinking blearily from the comfort of Zayn’s hold. Zayn would snuggle in closer, wrap his arm around Niall tighter and whimper and whine with nips of his teeth into Niall's skin. Niall would smile all lazy and small and roll back into Zayn’s touch - he’d turn and their lips would meet in sluggish closed mouth kisses that barely brushed skin to skin. He’d watch as Zayn’s eyes would struggle open - exhaustion evident in purple bruises, heavy weights that he had force into submission with every blink. They’d kiss until Zayn could see properly. Until the thick black line of his lashes framed the perfect toffee tone his eyes were. They’d whisper hello’s into skin warmed by a bevy of blankets and body heat. The tips of their noses brushing against each other saying the I love you’s that neither of them would speak - didn’t think they had to.

Zayn’s long fingers would find Niall’s hips, pushing Niall onto his back as Zayn would rock up onto his knees, straddling Niall's thighs. He’d press in deep, leaving thumbprints over sharp bones and just _stare_ and Niall would look back. At some point, when Niall opened his mouth to mention getting up or starting their day or being late, Zayn would lean in, his lips stealing all the words that Niall tried to say. The ends of sentences were never spoken because Zayn took them all. He’d snog Niall until he stopped attempting to speak, till all he could do was return each press of Zayn’s lips to his. Let Zayn’s tongue lick into Niall’s mouth and take the sounds from the source. .

Maybe Zayn had done it so often - Niall didn’t know how to start conversations between them at all anymore.

They’d rock together slow. Zayn’s steady shift of his hips having Niall begging for release, begging for _more_. Niall’s fingertips would work at Zayn’s belt, pluck at the zip on his fly and then dive under cotton pants to hot, hard skin that would thicken at his touch. Zayn wouldn’t stop kissing him and Niall would manage to get Zayn off before Zayn would fumble with a shaking hand to touch Niall and their come would mix in hot pools over Niall’s skin.

Only then would their mouths separate. Niall too weary to utter a word and Zayn taking the shower first - leaving Niall alone with his thoughts and the things he didn’t say. Should have tried harder to start.

\- - -

 

He fell in love with Zayn that way. Endless afternoons and mornings and even middays spent between white sheets because Zayn’s mother taught him the wonder of bleach in wash. The almost clinical bedding in stark contrast to those that would roll around on top of it. The warmth Zayn’s body exuded when Niall laid him out, ate him out and fucked him open with his fingers and tongue and dick.

He fell in love over months of slow Sundays. Of Wednesdays that made them both late. Of Friday nights that became the early parts of Saturday’s - alcohol fueling their touches and drugs addling their brains. He fell in love with familiar sounds of sleep. Of deep breathing and nose whistles and grunts when dreams were bad or good - Niall never asked.

Niall fell in love with a boy who smiled in his sleep.

Loved the boy who hid more than just his nightmares from Niall with a turn of a shoulder. The boy who hid his dreams from view.

\- - -  
He fell in love with Zayn in a morning.

They were at the coffee shop just a street away from Zayn’s home. The one with the scones that were as big as Niall’s fist - as big as Harry’s, really, and Harry had huge hands. Whipped cream piled high in a bowl with a pot of strawberry conserve that had _proper_ chunks of fruit.

They were Niall’s favourite things but only on a Saturday and only in the afternoon.

But this was a Sunday and they’d gone out the night before. An inebriated Louis occupied the lone bed, face planted on it the moment they’d walked in the door. Zayn and Niall had unfolded the sofa, curled up facing each other and talked and whispered and laughed under a blanket that smelled of mothballs and smoke pulled high above their heads. Warding off sleep through endless discussion and coffee staining their teeth and making rings on an old text book that they rested their mugs on. Both entirely aware of hangovers that would await them once eyelids fluttered closed and words ceased to be.

They’d been friends for over a year then. Both new to the area, new to the university and new to a world that was much bigger than the small community’s they’d grown up in. They’d clung to each other initially - the quiet surrounding them both seeming enough to pull them together like magnets. Zayn with his happiness found in books and talk that only occurred when he _had_ something to say. Niall with his bright smiles and endless chatter finding solace in having Zayn’s complete and utter attention when they were alone. He didn’t _need_ to stand out, to make noise or laugh loud. He could just _be_ and it was enough.

And Zayn became enough for him.

“Sugar in your coffees, sir?”

“Two in one, three in the other.”

Niall didn’t say a word. Just stood beside Zayn as they waited for the barista to make the machine hiss and grind and create sustenance they both probably shouldn’t have had - but both needed.

When they sat at the little table in the corner - hidden from most but still with a good view of the door - Niall waited till Zayn was faffing about with his coat before switching their cups.

As if he didn’t know that Zayn liked his coffee sweet and his tea bitter.

As if was embarrassed to want more.

Zayn said nothing after the first sip. Just closed his eyes and sighed the same as Niall did because good coffee was good coffee and this was great.

He smiled at Niall and Niall smiled back. Niall wondered how long until he fell so in love with Zayn he’d forget this exact moment because there’d be millions to chose from that would mean the same thing.

He wondered if Zayn could feel it, too.

When they wandered back to Zayn’s an hour later, new cups warming their fingertips, Niall didn’t hesitate when Zayn’s hand brushed his. He just turned his hand, palm out, and let Zayn’s fingers twine with his own. They didn’t speak about it then - the way their friendship had changed in the space of a cup of coffee or two. They never really discussed who they were to each other or what they meant.

It was a Sunday that felt like a Monday morning - a dream before a reality that Niall never wanted to wake up from.

\- - -

But dreams didn’t last forever.

Niall woke up. The harsh reality of daylight burned bright in orange and reds behind eyelids where his eyes stir from sleep. Niall watched as Zayn left their bed, left Niall and how it was easier for him to do so every morn. Niall watched as the words he did say faded into those that he never had to. Niall watched as their eyes met less, they touched less. He filled in the spaces Zayn left behind with bits of new things or old that he’d forgotten were parts that made up _him_. Not the Niall he was now, but the one _before_.

Before the coffee and TV. Before the drinks and weed and the uppers on a Friday night. Before arguments never happened and fights didn’t have a chance to occur. Before Niall strangled himself with everything that didn’t feel right anymore.

Because he loved these parts of Zayn. These pieces that turned and fit themselves into Niall’s life and he didn’t know how to be without them - so ingrained they were into Niall’s living soul..

But Niall’s not _in love_ with Zayn.

Not a little bit.

Not at all.

\- - -

“Do you remember,” he said one night, they’d both been home for a change, the football match on the telly providing the sound between them. “Do you remember how you’d leave notes on my skin?”

Zayn’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, but he nodded, Niall could see that much from the corner of his eye, his own gaze focused on the little men in red running over the green.

“I would leave them on for days. I’d scrub around black and blue ink until it faded to nothing. I even thought about getting someone to do it permanent, you know? Asked Harry if he had his tattoo gun at home one night when we were both stoned.”

“What words?” Zayn’s voice is low - husky from disuse. Niall wondered if he’d talked at all today - he certainly hadn’t to Niall. Not until now.

“Lost in you.”

Zayn hummed but said nothing more - neither did Niall - but the lift to the corner of Zayn’s lips was a sign Niall could read. He knew Zayn remembered the thick black ink that curved around Niall’s thigh - an angled permanent marker creating cutting, jagged edges on Niall’s pale skin. Words that Niall had woken up to the third night they’d spent together - more than just falling asleep in each other’s arms. There was more than that - Zayn practiced Arabic lettering and Kanji in brush strokes over Niall’s torso - ink from food colouring he’d steal from Harry’s cupboards, a baster for a brush. He’d scribble notes from songs on Niall’s chest, join the freckles that covered Niall’s shoulders with fine felt tips. Write curved letters down Nialls’ spine in words he assured Niall weren’t rude - but when Louis caught sight of them he’d laughed and teased Niall for weeks after.

\- - -

When Niall opened his eyes the next morning, he rubbed a hand over his face, listened to Zayn in the shower. It was only when he rolled over to watch Zayn like he always did that he noticed the marks on his chest, curving over his heart. He sat up, legs thrown over the side of the bed as he took in the image in the mirror. Looked down and smiled and for the first time in forever, Zayn had company in the shower.

_Always lost. Always lost in you. With you I am found_


End file.
